


The Second Prometheus and Other Drabbles

by aadarshinah



Series: Tales From The Ancient!John 'verse [3]
Category: Stargate - All Series, Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Ancient John Sheppard, M/M, Sentient Atlantis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aadarshinah/pseuds/aadarshinah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various Drabbles in the Ancient!John 'verse, posted in the order they are written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Second Prometheus I

**Author's Note:**

> And we have a new AJ 'Verse drabble collection, in a new series for all these AJ-related short stories. This one starts out with some AJ head!canon for Rodney, as laid out in his [bio](http://aadarshinah.livejournal.com/370160.html) on lj.
> 
> \- - - 
> 
> “Why should the thirst for knowledge be aroused, only to be disappointed and punished? My volition shrinks from the painful task of recalling my humiliation; yet, like a second Prometheus, I will endure this and worse, if by any means I may arouse in the interiors of Plane and Solid Humanity a spirit of rebellion against the Conceit which would limit our Dimensions to Two or Three or any number short of Infinity.”
> 
> Edwin Abbott Abbott, Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions  
> \- - -  
> Kosmos 954 [crashed](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kosmos_954) in January 1978. Rodney would have been almost ten years old.

> Rodney McKay was, by any reckoning, the most remarkable of all the exceptional minds that went into – and came out of – the Stargate Program. While others would unlock the secrets of the Stargates, none would approach his level of understanding of the technology.
> 
> A man for whom the impossible took a few minutes and the difficult a few seconds, the first third of his life was marked by its astounding loneliness. A man with few equals, who distained social convention and rarely abided authority, it's quite likely he would have followed the path of his scientific forebears Isaac Newton – purported to have died a virgin after inventing calculus at the age of twenty-three – and Alan Turing – who took his own life at age forty-one – if an accident of fate had not caused a Russian reconnaissance satellite to malfunction in his ninth year…

\--Excerpt from the preface to Avery Miller Rosenthal's biography of her great-uncle, _Rodney McKay: The Second Prometheus_ (Atlantis Press, 2069).

 

* * *

 

Born in Québec, Canada, Meredith Rodney McKay was the eldest child and only son of British-born automotive mechanic William McKay and his _Québécoise_ bride, Sharon Madison. Precociously intelligent from a markedly young age, began _école primaire_ a year early, eventually skipping Grades 2, 4, and 8 to graduate at the age of – barely – thirteen. By this point, Rodney had already been consulting for the CIA for four years, ever since they had investigated the implosion-type atomic weapon he had built for a science fair. On their urging – and with their funding – he chose to pursue his undergraduate studies at MIT beginning in the fall of 1981. Although he would chose to major in aeronautics and astronautics rather than pure physics, the CIA would keep him on their payroll for another eleven years, until passing him with great recommendation on to the US Air Force, who would make great use of him.

Following his graduation – _summa cum laude_ – in 1985, having just turned seventeen, Rodney headed west to the California Institute of Technology, taking with him approximately a quarter of a million dollars in US military grants. He would complete his first doctorate in 1988 in astrophysics before transferring to Stanford University just a few hours north. There he would take a second PhD in mechanical engineering, becoming at – barely – twenty-three one of the worlds foremost experts in aeronautics, wormhole physics, and the science of making things explode.

It is in this last capacity that Rodney would begin his work for the USAF, occasionally offering expertise on such programs as Brilliant Eyes and Brilliant Pebbles (precursors of the Terran Oracle network). Even after being read in on the Stargate Program in the summer of 1996, he would continue to work on Naquadah-enhanced warheads out of Washington, occasionally making trips out to Nellis Air Force Base to test his designs. Although familiar with the design, he would not encounter the Stargate until 2001.

Following the Persistent Memory incident of that same year (whereby Teal’c was trapped in the SGC’s Stargate), Rodney was transferred to Kuybyshev in the Russian province of Novosibirsk on the Kazakhstan border, where his research changed focus to Naquadah’s non-military uses – mainly in power generation and as an alloy. Although he would return briefly to the SGC a year later, this would be the last time Rodney would spend any significant time in North America.

From Siberia he went to Antarctica as part of the team researching the unearthed Alteran outpost. It was there he, in conjunction with Doctors Carson, Jackson, and Weir, discovered the Stargate address of The Lost City of Atlantis.

The rest, as they say, is history.


	2. Our Lady of Atlantis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Know, oh prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars.” 
> 
> Robert E. Howard, The Complete Chronicles of Conan  
> \- - -   
> I'm on a bit of a [biography / head!canon](http://aadarshinah.livejournal.com/371908.html) kick at the moment if you can't tell. Here's Elizabeth's.

> A thousand candles can be lit from a single flame and, for Atlantis, Elizabeth Weir was that flame. Not merely the first commander of the Atlantis Expeditions, her influence formed the foundation of The Pegasus Confederation. Where Iohannes Invictus was the fire and Helianus Ascendant the steel that forged the Confederation, she was its midwife, bringing all the lessons she had learned in diplomacy and democracy building to bear upon nation still in its birth throes at her death…
> 
> For this reason her tomb, built ten years after her death and empty even now, bears only the words: _Our Lady of Atlantis_. 

\--Excerpt from Avery Miller Rosenthal's preface to the 75th edition of _Elizabeth Weir: A Life_ (written by Rodney McKay in 2007; published Atlantis Press, 2012; rereleased as _Our Lady of Atlantis,_ 2087).

* * *

In the days before the Second World War, Elizabeth's paternal grandfather, Hendrikje de Vries, was the mayor of the city of Kerkrade, on the Dutch border with Germany. Indeed, Kerkrade had been part of the German town of Herzogenrath until Dutch independence in 1815. A peace-loving man at heart, he tried too hard to appease his German counterparts across the Nieuwstraat line, and ended up perpetuating a system with which he could have no part. Alas, he realized this too late, and for his resistance both he and his influential sister, Lijsebeth de Vries, were executed by the local _Gauleiter._ After the war, Hendrikje's widow, Vera Wirtjes, and their two young sons, Izaak and Constantijn, emigrated to the United States, where their surname was Anglicized to _Weir_.

Constantijn, now called Constantine, would remember very little of the war. But he would remember the example of his father and aunt, and would grow up to become a diplomat. He would serve as United States Resident Representative in Switzerland ('83 - '89) for most of Elizabeth's teenage years, and go on to serve as the US Ambassador to Micronesia ('89-93), Belgium ('93-'97), and Switzerland ('97-'02). He would die in office during the last - ironically, of an undetected brain aneurysm.

Elizabeth, named after her great-aunt, would attend _Institut Le Rosey_ from age eight, graduating from it's upper school in 1985. From there she would follow in her father's footsteps, majoring in Political Science at Boston College and taking a doctorate in the same from Georgetown. Her stills were better served in negotiation than politics, and she served in various UN postings until being asked to become the first civilian head of the SGC - a post she would later resign in favour of heading the First Atlantis Expedition. 

During the First Expedtion, she chose to allow the Ancient Iohannes to become her military commander following the death of Colonel Sumner. This decision would to some degree lead directly to her death, as it would be Iohannes' attempt to free her from the Asurans that would cause the cerebral trauma that would eventually take her life. She would only be thirty-five.

Despite her early death, Elizabeth's legacy would reverberate through the Pegasus Confederation: in the words (and spirit) of The Charter of the Pegasus Confederation and The Declaration of Universal Rights; in The Elizabeta Molia Praefecta Imperial Healthcare Centre (the free, universal healthcare clinic that would be founded on Atlantis after her death); and the half-dozen children who would bear her name.


	3. The Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The truth is you can be orphaned again and again and again. The truth is, you will be. And the secret is, this will hurt less and less each time until you can't feel a thing. Trust me on this.”   
> Chuck Palahniuk  
> \---  
> This was going to be the beginning of the next chapter of "Frater," but starting at it forever has made me decide that I must start completely over once again. I do really like this section, though, so...

**14 November, 2007 _–_ Vancouver, Terra, Avalon**

 

It is a little after midnight when John finds him, carrying a plastic bag in one hand and balancing Madison on his hip with the other. “You should eat,” he says mildly, setting the bag on the desk. “Man cannot live on coffee alone.”  

“Thanks,” Rodney tells him, opening the bag to find at least a dozen cartons of Chinese. Rodney can’t remember the last time he had Chinese. Sometime before the _Haegira_ , he thinks; probably not since the last time he and John were in Vancouver. Surprisingly, he finds he hasn’t really missed it. “How is she?”

There’s a couch nearby. It’s mostly covered with papers and the other assorted detritus of a big city police station, but John’s able to clear enough off to make space for their niece. Madison makes an odd, strangled sound as John lays her down, as if choking back a shout of terror. 

“About as well as you’d expect.” He runs his fingers gently through her hair. A trail of blue-white flames dances in their wake and Madison falls silent. “She’s at a terrible age to lose a parent.”

“You weren’t much older.”

“But I never knew my mother. _Matertera_ Catalina had raised me my entire life. Mother was just some woman fighting in the War I might see again someday – not that I remembered having seen her at all. For Madison it’s going to be different. Harder. She’ll have all those memories but not understand why her father went away – not really. She’s going to have to be very brave.”

“We’re taking her back,” Rodney says fiercely, all of his exhaustion and rage and _impotence_ at being unable to do anything but sit in this police station and sign forms and explain to detectives over and over again where he’s been all these years and how he found out about his sister going missing so quickly. “If we don’t find Jeannie, we’re taking her back with us.”

“We’re taking her back either way – Madison and Jeannie both. Family should be together.”    

 _Spoken like a man who never had one_ , Rodney doesn’t say, because even he knows when to bite his tongue – some of the time, at least. Instead he just nods and passes John a carton of rice. “You may have to convince Jeannie of that.”

“Gladly, if it means she’s still alive.”

“They won’t kill her. They need her.”

“How are you so sure?”

Rodney glances over at Madison, making sure she’s still asleep before continuing, “About an hour ago the police found the bodies of two men in riot gear in a dumpster twelve blocks from Jeannie’s house. They think that they were involved in the kidnapping.”

“Lots of people get killed every day in a city like this.”

“Not in riot gear, and not with their hands cut off.”

John _hums_ and this and steals a carton of plain rice for himself. He’s been on a bit of _back to my roots_ kick since the Palamede, up to and including readopting his species’ vegetarianism. “Why would the kidnappers kill two of their own?”

“My guess? The others took exception to them killing Kaleb. Kidnapping is seven years if caught, but murder – first-degree murder, like this is – gets them each twenty-five. The joys of joint criminal enterprise.”

John looks slightly confused by this – and isn’t that a strange look, coming after so long. He’d gotten so used to John knowing everything while Ascended that Rodney had almost forgotten that there are things John no longer remembers. Books he doesn’t remember reading. Movies he doesn’t remember seeing. The whole of Terran culture, as much a mystery to him as it was before he Ascended and had to fill the hours others spent sleeping with _something_.

“It means that whatever one person does during a crime the whole group can be charged for.”

“Ah.” John pokes at his rice. “And do we have that?”

Rodney shakes his head, stabbing his own dinner with a plastic fork, lacking John’s dexterity with chopsticks. “You said you wanted everyone to be charged on their own merits. Something about _the success or failure of your deeds does not add up to the sum of your life._ And then you quoted Harry Potter.”

“Who’s Harry Potter?”

“I don’t know if I should be surprised you remembered everything there is to know about _Wormhole X-treme_ but forgot Harry Potter or not.”

“Priorities,” he shrugs.

“ _Wormhole X-treme_ should be nobody’s priority.”

“You’re just saying that because you didn’t like your episode.”

“First of all, it wasn’t _my_ episode. And, secondly,” he stabs his fork in John’s direction, “I was completely misrepresented.

“I thought your character was incredible. Very true to form.”

“You’re just saying that because you have a thing for guy they got to play me.”

John smirks. “Well, they cast accurately then, didn’t they?”

Rodney rolls his eyes. “You are an idiot. Why did I marry you again?”

“My money and my good looks, obviously.”

“Yes, that _must_ have been it,” he snorts before leaning forward to kiss whim – which, knowing their luck, is exactly when one of the junior detectives walks in to the office Rodney had stolen from significantly higher up to hack into their computer network. Clearly, the detective is expecting to find whoever’s name is on the door, not two civilians and their five-year-old niece.

John pulls back slowly and (rather reluctantly in Rodney’s eyes) stands, pasting his solider façade back on. It’s been falling more and more of late. Like his reclaimed vegetarianism, Rodney doesn’t know what to make of it.

He doesn’t know what to make of a lot of things these days.

“I- I-‘m sorry, sirs,” the detective says, rapidly regaining control of his voice. He’s less successful with his features, which remain wide-eyed and slack-jawed. A manila envelope, tied shut and covered with many lines of crossed out writing, dips awkwardly in his hand. “I was looking for Inspector-“

“Is it to do with the Miller case?”

“Yes, but-“

“In that case, you can go ahead and tell us. We’re only going to find out anyway.”

“But-“

“Our lawyers are on their way across town right now to wake up the judge that will sign over jurisdiction of this case to folks much more capable than you or this department, and when that happens those investigators will be reporting directly to myself and my husband. Make this easy on all of us and tell me what you know, or so help me I will find someone who will.”

“You can’t-“

“He can, actually,” Rodney interrupts lightly, “and he will, so I suggest you do as he says.”

The detective looks like he wants to protest, but settles for asking, “Who the hell are you people?”

He shrugs. “I’m Doctor Rodney McKay, astrophysicist. He’s Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, United States Air Force.”

The detective’s eyes go wider. “The math guy?”

“Among other things,” John says mildly. “Now, what have you found?”


	4. Forgotten Tales I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK WTF this even is. I cope with my life by creating mythologies for AJ, and I've had a lot of coping to do lately. Rather than put it to use, I wrote this, which is about Iohannes' 27th great-grandfather, as delineated in [this family tree](http://aadarshinah.livejournal.com/379106.html).

In the summer of 2007 CE, six _lintres_ were recovered from The Palamede. Within the wreckage of _Mnemosyne_ , the largest of these, was found a USB containing, among other things, forty-two books written by Iohannes Ianidus Icarus Imperator while he was Ascended. This is a selection from one of these, _Forgotten Tales of the Lost City_.

Not published until after Declassification [7 April, 2015 CE], _Forgotten Tales_ is written in the form of short biographical sketches of several of Atlantis’ more infamous inhabitants, ranging from the city’s designer, Atlas Iapetos, to the last child born in Atlantis before the Exodus, Nicolaa de Luera Pastor.

 _Forgotten Tales_ was expanded in 2060 CE by Iohannes’ great-niece, Avery Miller Rosenthal, to place greater emphasis on the generations on either side of the Exodus. This selection is from this revised second edition.

* * *

  
_Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting._ _  
_

Dragon Age: Origins

* * *

**Of the Founding of the Ival Family and of Ioséphus Emrys Ivanus -** **c. 9236 BCE – Atlantis, Terra, Avalon**  

In the last days of the last great age, before the coming of the Plague and the rise of Avalon’s false gods, there was in the great _urbes-naves_ of Atlantis a wizened and much learned _rector_ by the name of Ariadne Athanasia Emrys, the last of her great line. For although she had reached great age, even by the standards of that time, she had never had a lover, nor cared for a child, and of her sister’s line there was but a single girl-child more given to the arts than the movement of the stars. The end of her life was nearing and she’d yet to find an heir.

No sooner had Ariadne resigned herself to her knowledge being lost, as had the learning of Atlas Iapetos, the wisdom of Amelius Veritas, and the insights of a hundred thousand other luminaries whose very names had been lost to time, than was a child of eight orphaned within the city and left without kith or kin to care for him. To the surprise of all, Ariadne took in the boy and raised him as her own, despite her great age and exalted position.

The child’s name was Ioséphus Ival, but for many years he was known as Ioséphus Emrys Ivanus. For in those days, family meant everything, and the family Ioséphus had lost had come from less than nothing, whereas the Emrys had had power and prestige in Atlantis for a hundred generations and more.

For fifteen years, Ariadne was father, mother, sister, mentor, friend and confidant to Ioséphus and taught him everything she knew of her art. But so great was Ioséphus’ aptitude that by the time of her death he had surpassed his teacher in both knowledge and skill. Even so, Ioséphus was young and, worse still, his blood was from the most minor and obscure of all Lantean families. The Council refused to believe that he would make a suitable replacement for Ariadne, so a great tournament was called.

The rules of the tournament were this: any person who wished to become _rector_ had one month to put their claim before the Council. This claim had to take the form a new discovery or invention and had to have been arrived at independently, devoid of any outside assistance. These claims would be judged blindly by the _cancellarii_ and whoever so won the tournament would be named _rector_ , the highest honour they could bestow – more illustrious by far than the minor position of _praetor_ , second only to the _praefectus_ in power and prestige.

Eighty claims were laid before the Council.

They were eventually narrowed down to three.

The first was a mirror as wide and tall as a man, built out of black melanite and polished obsidian, and beautiful to behold. Its front was a single pane of Naquadah ground so fine it is nearly transparent; inlaid into the reverse were veins of silver that together formed the ancient seal of the line of mythmakers and storytellers that had once held so much sway in the days when their people still believed in the rule of gods and power of true names. But even such would not have been enough to impress the _cancellarii_ if the mirror had not held a deeper purpose: through it alternate versions of one’s own reality could be viewed or even visited. And so its maker was named the first candidate for _rector_.

The second was vambrace, beautifully tooled in night black leather and designed to span four finger-widths of a man’s arm at a time when fashion dictated a brace run from wrist to elbow. Inscriptions, stamped into the leather and washed in silver gilding, telling the ancient story of how a good, kind man found a ring which granted the gift of invisibility and with it became a slave to his appetites, limn the edges and in the centre is a single shard of malachite, no bigger than a child’s thumbnail. This too would have failed to impress the _cancellarii_ if this artefact too had not held a deeper purpose: to turn the wearer invisible at his or her will. And so its maker was named the second candidate for _rector_.

The third claim was artless and graceless and terrible to behold. For it was nothing more and nothing less than single drone such as the _pastores_ used in times past to protect the city, in such times that there were actually those that could threaten the safety of Atlantis, not yet The Lost City. Such a crude and common artefact should have failed to illicit so much as a glance from the _cancellarii_ , but it too was more than it seemed: this mighty weapon had been re-forged into something ten times as deadly and twenty times more agile than its predecessor – no easy task for a weapon already as lethal as a hundred thousand generations of scientists had already turned their minds to at one point or another. And so its maker was named the third and last candidate for _rector_.

The Council had its candidates but could not made a decision, divided as always over the best course of action. After weeks of debate, the only thing the _cancellarii_ had decided upon was that they needed more information about those under consideration before they could make a choice. So they asked for the three candidates to come forward and make themselves known that they might be better considered for the honour they wished to bestow upon them.

Only Ioséphus Emrys Ivanus came forward.

“And which artefact did you design?” asked the _praefectus_ , the Council’s elected leader. At times in Lantean history, his office had been filled with ruthless dictators, forcing their will upon the _urbs-navis_ and its inhabitants until finally deposed. In others, his predecessors had been but puppets for which the _rectores_ or, more rarely still, _praetores_ pulled the strings. This man was neither, but would that he had been either, if only to make future events less certain – but that is another story, with a far different ending.

“All three,” Ioséphus answered.

The _cancellari_ scoffed at him. Each artefact was an opus – a culmination of a life’s work. The wisest amongst them could hope to build one such as these in their lifetime. It was difficult to accept that one as young as he could craft even one of these devices. For Ioséphus to have built all three was considered impossible.

Yet it was the truth, for Ioséphus had learned the secrets of the universe at Ariadne’s knee, she who knew more of its secrets than any _rector_ ‘before or since, excepting perhaps Atlas Iapetos, who had built the _urbes-naves_ and the _potentiae_ to power them, and Ianus Ishachidus, who was the culmination of a species’ desire to unravel the mysteries of the multiverse. And so Ioséphus was named _rector_ despite The Council’s prejudices, founding a dynasty of _rectores_ and _magistres_ that would stretch into the twilight of his civilization.


	5. Take Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Your words mean nothing. Take action, if you dare."
> 
> SG1 "Full Circle"
> 
> \- - -  
> One of the many ways I was going to begin "Frater"/"Natus". Kaleb is a writer for Wormhole Xtreme in this verse, and this is his version of "Full Circle" at the beginning.

_Colonel Danning looks over the broad expanse of unmarked dessert. Gone is the ziggurat. Gone too is the village and the people who’d so recently lived and fought and died there._

_He turns back to K’tak – to thank the boy for everything he’s done – to tell him how proud he is of him – to apologize for the terrible, pointless way his life was cut short – but when he looks behind him, the boy too is gone._

_With a bittersweet smile, he walks back to his team. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go home.”_

* * *

 

It’s hard to believe how much life can change in a year.

Or maybe it’s not hard at all. The universe itself hadn’t changed, only his perception of it had.

Kaleb had scarcely believed his wife when she said that a US Air Force officer had come to their door, asking if she couldn’t just pop over to the Pegasus galaxy for a couple weeks to work on some project with her brother in – of all places – _the Lost City of Atlantis_. But when Meredith had appeared in their living room in a burst of white light, talking about how he was too busy and important and sleep deprived and _important_ come halfway across the universe to play tour guide for anyone, even his sister, Kaleb had known it to be true.

The Americans had been hiding the existence of space travel for the better part of a decade. After that, finding out that the popular science fiction series _Wormhole X-treme_ was based heavily off this top-secret program was almost insignificant.

It had become rather more significant after the same colonel who’d approached Jeanne about her math proof approached _him_ about writing for the show. They – _they_ being Top Secret Productions, the un-ironically named front company responsible for managing the thin line between fact and franchise – needed someone to turn mission files into a comprehensible narrative for the oblivious screenwriters to use to create episode scripts. It was all very convoluted and American, but Kaleb had accepted, mostly because he wanted to know what his brother-in-law had been doing all these years.

It had been an eye-opening experience.

Armed only with his predecessor’s notes and a film studies minor, Kaleb managed to sketch out a comprehensive storyline for the next three seasons of _Wormhole X-treme_ and push through most of the development of the spin-off, _Pegasus X-treme_ , that’s set to start filming late next year. He’d intended it just to be a side job, something to do in his free time, but he ended up reducing his course load at the university this semester and has become a frequent face at the studio on filming days.

Jeannie calls it his midlife crisis. And maybe it is, but for the first time in their marriage they’re financially secure. All their debt is paid off and they’ve got a good sized college fund set aside for Madison and have finally succeeded in trying for another baby. It’s too early to tell if it’s a boy or a girl, but Jeannie keeps joking about naming it after a WXT character – Nicolas or Alexandria or even Andrew, after the show-version of her brother.

He’s just finishing up the last of the story notes – which all too often turn into short stories of their own, to be fleshed out by a ghost writer and turned, embarrassingly, into pulp fiction – for the season six finale when he hears a noise in the kitchen. It’s probably Jeanne. At thirteen weeks, the cravings haven’t really started yet, but she’s paranoid about staying hydrated.

Quickly, he saves the document and flicks off his desk lamp, calling out, “Babe? Is that you?” as the room plunges into darkness.

There’s a creak on the stairs. Maybe it’s not Jeannie. Maybe it’s-

“Madison? What are-?” he begins, pushing the door open, but never finishes, never seeing the intruder in the hallway,

 


	6. Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “A lifetime isn't forever, so take the first chance, don't wait for the second one! Because sometimes, there aren't second chances! And if it turns out to be a mistake? So what! This is life! A whole bunch of mistakes! But if you never get a second chance at something you didn't take a first chance at? That's true failure.”  
> ― C. JoyBell C.  
> \- - - 
> 
> This was originally written over a year ago, to be part of the scene before the assault on Assuras at the end of S3. Then it was adapted to take place on that forever-long September 1. I'm not sure I managed to get the timeline for this one straight... but I liked it too much to ever delete.

“You’re leaving already,” he says.

She had not thought he was awake. Kanaan had been so quiet when she’d slipped out of bed that she had thought to make a quick escape. For how can she explain that he holds her too closely in the night, so she feels trapped, restricted, confined by the cage of his arms? How can she tell him that he is a good man – a dependable man, solid and steady, a fair tracker and better trader – but that she finds she loves him better from a distance, as if the idea of him is more attractive than the reality?

“Yes,” she tells him, lacing her bodice with quick, practiced motions. She can be out of bed and fully dressed in less than two minutes if she must. She wishes she had used that speed now. “I have lingered here too long. There are duties I must attend to.”

“I never suspected otherwise.”

Teyla pauses, reaching for her boots. The words are innocuous enough, but there is something off about his tone that requires comment. “The people of Cyzicos desire entrance into the Confederation. I am to meet with their Curaca for preliminary negotiations before escorting them to Atlantis. I may already be expected.”

“And you must be the one to do this.” Again, this is a statement, not a question. There is no doubt in Kanaan’s voice, only irritation.

She does her best to respond evenly. They have had too many conversations of this sort lately and she is beginning to suspect what she should have known all along: that Kanaan wants something from her she is not prepared to give. But, then again, so many do. “My negotiation skills would be of most benefit to the Confederation in this situation, yes.”

“I am certain _the Confederation_ appreciates your sacrifice.”

“What are you implying?”

“I am implying nothing.”

“If you desire to lie to me,” Teyla says, shoving her feet roughly into her boots before standing, “kindly do not do it so plainly before me.”

“What do you desire me to say?” he asks, sitting upright in the bed and roughly pushing the blankets to one side. “That you made a commitment to our people, yet you appear to hold the lives of the Earth-folk in higher esteem. Or perhaps that your head has been turned by the luxuries offered by the Ancestral city and the honours are afforded there?”

“Do not be ridiculous.”

“The truth is never ridiculous, however strange.”

“Is that what you think, Kanaan? That I have betrayed our people for babbles and trinkets? You know how difficult a decision it was for me. But I can do more on Atlantis to help our people and the rest of the humans in this galaxy than I ever could here.”

“You are still needed here.”

“Our people are in fine hands. I would not have left if I thought otherwise, no matter the benefit.”

“ _I_ need you here.”

Sighing heavily, “Kanaan-”

“Let’s get married.”

“You cannot be serious!” Teyla exclaims before she can think better of it.

“I have never been more serious about anything in my life. Marry me, Teyla. We can be a proper family and you can resume your rightful place as leader of our people. Forget the galaxy. Forget the Confederation. Both are important, but neither are as important as your happiness, and I cannot see how you can possibly be happy when you are constantly giving yourself people who cannot understand all you have sacrificed for them and cannot give you anything worth having in return.”

“I do not know where this talk of _happiness_ and _unhappiness_ is coming from. I am quite content.”

“Content is not the same as happy.”

“Who among us can be truly happy until the Wraith are defeated and the universe is finally free to become what it always should have been?”

“I could be, if we wed.”

“It does not work that way, Kanaan.”

“It does,” he insists, climbing out of the bed and moving to stand, naked as the day he was born, beside her. “You are the one who is making this difficult. You have ever wanted to leave the universe a better place than you found it, but you do not have to sacrifice everything to accomplish it. Even your Colonel Sheppard found the time to have a family amidst everything else.”

“Not all of us find happiness in the same manner.”

“Teyla,” he implores, lifting a hand to her shoulder to force her to face him, “I could make you so happy, if you let me. Why won’t you let me?”

She shrugs out of his hold. “I have to go,” she says quietly, and without allowing him the chance to say anything further, begins the long walk to the Stargate.

* * *

* * *

**Atlantis, Nova Loegria, Pegasus**

“Alright there, Teyla?” John asks as the Stargate closes behind her.

“I will be fine,” she assures him. With time, it might even be true.

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but wisely doesn’t press the issue. Instead he says, “Well, you’re just in time. We’re just about to start the mission briefing. Not that everyone doesn’t already know their parts backwards and forwards and translated into Old Loegrian and back, but there are enough civilians involved that it’s worth it just to settle everyone’s nerves.”

They start up for the stairs, making for the Conference Room.

The room is full to the bursting when they arrive and bustling with activity to boot. No less than half of the Lantean population is crowded around the tables there – admittedly, not such a difficult task, being that they only number twenty-five, - heads bent over computers and computer printouts. There are others in the room as well, all dressed sharply in the black-on-black uniforms of the Confederation Argosy, moving swiftly from one group to another and back again before leaving the room quickly, notes or datapad in hand.

Ronon catches them just inside the door. He’s not in uniform, but the soldiers treat him differentially regardless. He holds some rank out of formality, she believes, but from everything she’s heard his men would follow him regardless of the position he’s been given: deeds, not rank, matter most to them, as it rightly should be.

“I’m heading down to the hangar. Dahlia wants help keeping everyone in line and, besides, I’m no use here. Everything’s already been planned. Sitting around here talking about it is going to do nothing but put me to sleep.”

“It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“When do any of our plans work?” Ronon asks with a smirk.

John grins magnificently. "Where would be the fun in that?"

"I prefer to find my entertainment in pastimes of a less adventitious nature," she tells him with only a note of teasing in her voice.

Ronon scoffs at this. "Sure you do. And I'd rather read a book then miss a good fight."

She swats him lightly in the arm as he leaves. While she may appreciate what Ronon might call a _good fight_ , Teyla has never been one to actively seek them out. She fights when necessary and hones her skills to ensure her carelessness will not be another's death, but she would rather a quiet evening than some quarrel for quarrelling’s sake. Missions like these are nice diversions from her latest task, which is to speak with the leadership of other planets and negotiate their entrance into the confederation, but even so she would not wish battle upon them just for her entertainment.

For a brief moment, she tries to imagine what her life would be like without the Wraith. She could spend more time with her people, but she'd still be needed in Atlantis, to help keep the Confederation from falling apart once it’s common cause is gone. She could marry, as Kanaan wishes, and have a home, have a family.

She could do that now. Nothing is keeping her from marriage, from motherhood. Women for countless generations have wed and given birth in the shadow of culling. Many have seen their husbands, brothers, children taken. But they did not give into fear and let the Wraith stop them from leading their lives. She should not do so now.

She can see herself having children one day. She would not weep if it was not to come to pass, but she would not curse it either.

She can see herself having Kanaan's children, her features and his colouring on a small squalling being she could rock to sleep and sing the old songs and teach what little she’s managed to learn of this universe, so much wider than she’d ever believed as a child, and more frightful too.

Kanaan would be a good father, taking on more than his share of duties to let her rest, or to allow her time to visit Atlantis, or to provide her time to carry out her duties as their people’s leader. He would never complain – at least, not over the latter, - never make her feel an inadequate mother. Their only rows would be over her safety, and precisely how much time she spent off-world caught up in matters that shouldn't concern her.

She cannot see a way that any union between them could last.

John claps his hands together. Ronon slips past. "Alright," says the former. "Those of you who need to be here: find a seat. Everyone else: I don't care where you go, so long as it's not here. We've got a long day ahead of us and the sooner we get started, the sooner we're back here celebrating. The kitchens have promised cake and a meal entirely free of tava beans upon our return."

This earns a small cheer.

When everyone’s sorted themselves out and the doors shut behind the last dallying young officer, John turns to those who still remain, claps his hands together, and says, “Alright then. As you all know, in just under four hours, Rory, _Vindicta, Victoria_ , and _Thetis_ will launch from the city and begin their run on Asuras – which I will continue to call Operation Medusa, regardless of all the memos, because this city is not, in fact, a democracy but a benign dictatorship, and because all other suggestions sounded stupid.”

“That myth ends with Medusa’s head being lopped off, you know,” Major Lorne comments from the far end of the table, already in the battledress of the Ancestors, which includes far more laces than appear strictly necessary, “and I don’t think it starts that well for her either.”

“And yet, it’s what we’re going with.”

“That’s worrisome.”

“No, it’s-“ he begins before he, Rodney, and Major Lorne all tilt their heads curiously towards the ceiling. “Now _that’s_ worrisome.”

“Is something wrong?”

Before she receives an answer, Jinto slips into the room through a side door. Skidding to a halt in front of John, he bows clumsily as he begins his message. “Lord Iohannes, a starship just came out of hyperspace above Atlantis. It is the Earth-folk vessel _Apollo_. Their commander, Colonel Ellis, desires to speak with you as soon as possible.”

Rodney snorts. “Three guesses what he wants, and the first two don’t count.”

“Play nice,” John chides, his broad smile lessening the blow, “we’re trying to _avoid_ intergalactic war, remember?” Then, turning back to Jinto, “Tell him to go ahead and beam down. Might as well get it over with all at once.”

“I am not certain that is the proper attitude to take if it is peace we seek to cultivate with Earth,” Teyla admonishes.

John shrugs before sinking heavily into the lone empty seat at the table, to the right of his husband and directly across from his adoptive son. One of his hands comes to rest on Rodney’s neck, his thumb idly rubbing the curious, blinking Device that rests there, replacing the one which had forced him to Ascension’s door months before. Rodney leans into the touch in the manner of someone not entirely conscious of his actions, and Teyla searches her memories for single moment when she was so comfortable with Kanaan’s touch.

“I’m too old to change my ways now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to continue on to show Richard Woolsey being part of the crew in a "let's watch and make sure everything follows international law" sort of way, with Teyla and Richard finding a connection that is strengthened first through alcohol and then through Teyla's unexpected pregnancy with Torren. At first there is some uncertainty as to whether Kanaan or Richard is the father, but Richard promises to stand by her either way, whatever she choses, and that proves to be the start of a long, rather happy, relationship... 
> 
> Or, well, would have been.


	7. Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The most poetical thing in the world is not being sick.”   
> ― G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare  
> \- - -   
> Another random beginning to "Natus," in which Iohannes gets sick while on earth.

“I’m glad you find this funny.”

“Are you kidding?” Rodney asks, beaming so hard that there’s a real chance his face will split in two before much longer. “I find it hilarious.”

John casts him a dark look. “I’m dying of plague,” he pouts, clutching a wad of tissues as he slumps further down in the passenger’s seat, red eyed and pale, “and you’re laughing. It really is the end of days.”

“Firstly, you’re not dying. Secondly, you don’t have the plague. And, thirdly, since when did you start believing in things like _the end of days_?”

“Since I caught the plague, that’s when.”

Rodney rolls his eyes and almost misses their exit. Cursing, he quickly switches lanes and tries to remember if he needs to turn left or right to get to Jeannie’s place. He goes with left, because that’s the lane he’s in, and hopes it’s the right choice. If not, he’s just turning around and checking into the Four Seasons. He’s ready to be out of this car. “The cold medicine has obviously rattled your brains.”

“At least it’s doing something.”

“Again, you have a cold, _maybe_ the flu. What you do not have is the plague, be it bubonic, pneumonic, or the one the Ori sent to kill your ancestors. If I’d known you got like this when you were sick, I might have reconsidered marrying you.”

“I love you too, Rodney.”

“And I love you too, you idiot, but, honestly, it’s like you’ve never been sick before.”

 


	8. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That’s why I’m trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning.”   
> ― Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower  
> \- - -  
> Another potential beginning to "Natus."

Madison Miller at six years old has her mother’s spirit, her father’s energy, and her uncle’s distinct lack of patience. Which is to say, Iohannes feels he should have expected his young niece to come flying into the guest bedroom he is staying in at some ungodly hour of the morning, eager to see her _Uncle John and Uncle Mer_ after their arrival late last night. He supposes he should be glad that she’d waited until as late as six-thirty to wake them, but they’d not gotten in until almost midnight last night and the time difference between Vancouver and Nova Loegria is hardly the kindest.

“Uncle John! Uncle Mer!” she exclaims, jumping onto the bed and clambering her way over and between them to its head. “You’re here! You’re finally here! Did you bring me presents?”

This is quickly followed by the exclamation, “Madison Jerusha Miller! That is not how we talk to guests!” from the door.

“Sorry, Mum!” Madison apologies hastily. “I’m so happy you’re here. I was telling Tommy Brooks that you were my uncles and he didn’t believe me, not even after Mum was on TV all those times. He said I was making it up. So you have to come to school for show and tell, only that’s not ‘til Friday, but you have to come.”

The voice in the doorway turns from admonishing to amused. “Why don’t you let your uncles sleep? You can ask them about show and tell after you get back from school.”

“ _But_ _Mum_ -”

“It’s alright,” Iohannes mumbles, voice rough with sleep, not even sure if his words are coming out in a language they can understand. “I don’t mind. Give me a couple minutes and I’ll meet you downstairs.”


	9. Slices of Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.”   
> ― Edgar Allan Poe  
> \- - -   
> Part of what would have been "Nautus," after Jeannie is taken.

Nights are the worst part. 

He can ignore the occasional passing thought during the day. There are distractions. Jeannie’s disappearance has to be investigated, as does Kaleb’s murder, and somebody has to keep on eye on Madison since they’ve pulled her out of school for the time being. Iohannes barely has barely enough hours during day to breathe, let alone be bothered by his dark stray thoughts.

But nights are different. Nights are nothing but time – time haunted by fragments of imagined realities, by a _noise_ in his head that refuses to shut off, whispering of truths forgotten and promises broken. His is an insidious illness, Iohannes knows that now, brought about by all the things he can not remember from his time as an Ascended being. The things his hears and sees and sometimes dreams were once all too real but now hold less truth than a splinter of a shadow.

Medication helps. So does meditation, but no cure is perfect. Lately it’s all he can do to try to sleep without leaping from his bed and locking himself away in the bathroom, where all is dark and safe and good. He hates himself for thinking that way. He has been _pastor_ and _praetor_ and _imperator_ in his time; he knows better than to be upset by silly dreams, but there it is. Maybe it’s penance for everything he can’t remember. Maybe there was always something in his brain chemistry that made it a possibility. Maybe he just fucked himself up when he Descended. Whatever the reason, it’s made it impossible for him to sleep while on Terra.

 


	10. Turn of the Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We meet again at the turn of a tide. A great storm is coming, but the tide has turned."
> 
> LotR  
> \- - -   
> From John's Puzzle Piece, the one Rodney finds aboard _Mnemosyne_.

_“The universe is vast and we are so small,”_ the figure says, little more than a shadow as the holographic projector comes to life, slowly resolving into the recognizable form of Colonel Sheppard. “ _It’s almost impossible to believe that anything we can do matters, yet just last week I watched Narmer-Menes’ rebellion succeed against Ra on Terra. He still has many years to go before he unifies Aegyptus and becomes first pharaoh of the First Dynasty, but he still ordered the_ porta _buried beneath the sand, where it should stay until Paul Langford discovers it five thousand years from now. One man’s actions will shape the entire course of history – not just your planet, but for every sentient being from this point onwards._

 _“This is the third recording I’m making for you,”_ the hologram continues, its version of Sheppard looking directly into the camera, _“but the first where I am certain it will one day be found. I’m still not sure what to say._

_“There is a mystery rooted in the foundations of reality, a puzzle with pieces scattered across the length and breadth of the universe. I can no longer remember if I left them behind as breadcrumbs, to bring you where I needed you to go, or if it is a true problem to be solved. All I can tell you is that you must solve it. A storm is coming."_


End file.
